Chapter 405: We're About to See Results

Federal Weird Investigation Bureau headquarters, Underground Level 12.

The holographic conference room's dome reaches six meters high, its curved walls lined with matte black signal receivers. When thirty‑two holographic projectors fire up simultaneously, the room's temperature drops two degrees.

The top leaders of eleven countries and regions sit, via holographic projection, on either side of the oval long table. The image quality is so high it can discern the North American President's white hair at his temples and the British Prime Minister's age spots on the back of his hand.

No one speaks.

Silence has lasted four minutes.

The looping footage on the big screen silences everyone—Jiang Yuan drenched in black blood, lifting a 160‑pound middle‑aged man with one hand, the Shadow Legion rising from the ground, hundreds of black blades poised on the carotids of over three thousand civilians.

A number flickers in the lower‑right corner of the screen.

Live viewers: 270 million.

And it's still climbing.

The North American President speaks first. His hologram sits at the second seat on the right side of the table, tie askew, two suit buttons undone, looking ten years older than three days ago.

"We have no choice but to cut off the global civilian internet."

He says it without looking at anyone, his eyes fixed on the empty cup of water before him on the table.

"Immediately. All of it. Sever the backbone network at the physical level."

The British Prime Minister's projection sits to his right, the elderly gentleman with glossy, slick‑combed hair unusually unpretentious, fingers interlaced on his knees, knuckles turning white.

"I agree with the North American proposal. I also recommend that each member state authorize troops into major cities, imposing indefinite martial law. As for the rioters breaching the quarantine zones—"

He pauses for a fraction of a second.

"Authorize live‑fire dispersal."

A few sighs echo through the conference room.

The Southeast Asian Alliance representative's projection leans back against the chair, half his face hidden in shadow. The Middle East Union's chief adviser hunches over a tablet, typing rapidly, the screen's glare reflecting off his presbyopic lenses.

No one concurs.

But no one opposes either.

Lord Wei sits at the very head of the long table.

His hair is graying, a Thermal Cup sits before him with the lid half‑unscrewed. He leans back in his chair, both hands resting on the armrests.

He hasn't moved at all.

The North American President waits ten seconds, receives no reply, and simply turns his gaze.

"Lord Wei, the immediate priority is to stop the bleeding. Once the transmission channels are cut, the public's panic will subside within seventy‑two hours—"

"And then?"

Lord Wei's voice is low.

A wisp of white vapor rises above the Thermal Cup, and he doesn't even shift his gaze from it.

The North American President freezes for a moment.

"What?"

"I said, and then?"

Lord Wei finally lifts his head.

His slightly clouded old eyes sweep over every projection on both sides of the oval table, moving slowly—like a dull blade. Not swift, but each time it passes a person, that person involuntarily straightens his back.

"Cut the net. Martial law. Live fire." Lord Wei enunciates each word, "How long do you intend to keep it up? Three days? Three months? Three years?"

The North American President parts his mouth.

"This is only temporary—"

"Temporary?"

Lord Wei smiles.

It isn't a polite smile, but the kind a seventy‑something‑year‑old elder gives after seeing through all the tricks, cold and without warmth.

"Your presidential office was breached by Sai Men, who stripped your underwear on a global live broadcast, and now you tell me—temporarily cutting the net will let you put your pants back on?"

The North American President's face flushes red.

The British Prime Minister tries to smooth things over: "Lord Wei, we understand your concerns, but the immediate priority right now—"

The Thermal Cup lid slaps onto the tabletop.

The sound isn't loud, but the holographic conference room's microphones are set to maximum sensitivity, and the noise is amplified through thirty‑two speaker sets, exploding in the ears of each national leader.

Lord Wei stands up.

The chair slides back half a meter. He plants both hands on the table edge, his upper body leaning slightly forward.

"Trust."

He raises a finger.

"Who among you has told me how much trust the peoples of the seated leaders still have in you?"

No one answers.

"It was the same when Dongdao was designated a pollution quarantine zone. It was the same when Chicago dropped hydrogen bombs."

Lord Wei's finger sweeps from left to right, passing over one projected face after another.

"Paper can't contain fire; after two years of covering, what did it produce? It produced Sai Men, standing in your living room, shouting to the whole world—'Look, your government is deceiving you.'"

He bites the word "deceive" with extra emphasis.

"The common folk aren't fools. They've endured two years of information control, bottled up two years of resentment. Now Sai Men has lifted the lid, and your first reaction is—cover it again? With tanks and an internet shutdown?"

The North American President's lips move, but no sound emerges.

"When the army fires on civilians, guess—after the footage spreads, will the next crowd storming the quarantine be three thousand or thirty thousand?"

The words land, and the conference room falls silent for a full eight seconds.

The Southeast Asian Alliance representative peeks out of the shadows, voice soft: "According to Lord Wei's view......"

Wei Gong did not answer immediately.

He turned around and walked to the front of the large screen.

The screen froze on Jiang Yuan's silhouette. The young man stood in the middle of an empty street, surrounded by shattered glass and torn cardboard banners beneath his feet. The Shadow Legion had already dispersed; only he remained, drenched in blood, his back straight.

Wei Gong stared at the silhouette for a few seconds.

Then he turned back.

"Open."

A single word.

Eleven faces changed color simultaneously.

"Tell the seventy‑billion people worldwide about the existence of the Weird Domain, its real threat to humanity, and the current situation we face—completely and in full."

The North American President sprang up from his chair: "Are you crazy?!"

Wei Gong did not look at him.

"Blocking is worse than loosening. This principle was spoken of two thousand years ago."

Wei Gong spoke very slowly, grinding out each word one by one.

"The premise of an Information Blockade is that you can seal it. Now you can't. Sai Men has ripped this layer of window paper for us—so stop trying to frame it."

He raised his right hand and tapped the pile of crimson mutated corpses at Jiang Yuan's feet on the screen with his index finger.

"Tell them what Weird is. Tell them who is protecting them. Tell them that rushing into the isolation zone is not evolution, but a death sentence."

"But the public's panic—"

"Panic?" Wei Gong cut off the British Prime Minister, "Aren't they panicking now? Which panic—panic born of ignorance or panic born of truth—leads people to do the dumber thing?"

No one could answer the question.

Because everyone knew the answer in their hearts.

Wei Gong looked around the room.

"From today onward, no more concealment. No more using the 'maintaining social stability' rhetoric to fool the populace."

His voice pressed down, low, but each syllable hammered the listeners' ears painfully.

"We will let everyone worldwide see with their own eyes what the Weird Domain looks like. Let them know the probability that any manipulator who enters it cannot get out. Let them understand that the reason they can still sit at home, scrolling on their phones and cursing the government, is because someone is standing in front of them."

He picked up the Thermal Cup and screwed on the lid.

The gesture was mundane, so mundane it clashed with the setting. Yet that very incongruity made everyone realize—this elder had already made his decision, not seeking opinions.

"Within two hours, I need each of you to sign an electronic copy of the Joint Declaration. The wording will be drafted by us; you only need to stamp it."

The North American President's flushed face gradually turned a steely blue.

"Wei Gong, you cannot make this decision for everyone—"

"I already have."

Wei Gong tightened the cup lid, took two steps toward the door, then stopped.

He did not look back.

"Everyone, humanity's greatest enemy is not the Weird, but ignorance of the Weird."

Footsteps echoed in the Holographic Conference Room.

"At first, the ignorance lay with a small fraction of the Senior Executives; the resources they could mobilize were limited, and the damage caused was calculable."

"But if all of humanity harbors this ignorant attitude, the world will soon meet its inevitable end."

The door closed.

In the holographic projection, the heads of eleven nations stared at each other.

Someone cursed their mother. Someone made a phone call. Someone leaned back in their chair, massaging their temples.

But no one said "No".

Because each of them knew in their hearts that every word the elder said was correct.

It was just too painful.

The right things are often the most painful.

Jiang Hai City.

Beyond the floor‑to‑ceiling windows lay the midnight city skyline, neon signs bleeding into vague blobs of light in the fog.

Chu Che curled up in the swivel chair.

His posture was lazy—left leg draped over the right, his back sunk into the cushion, almost half‑reclined. The laptop on the desk glowed, and beside it sat a cup of hand‑brewed coffee still steaming.

What floated before him was not a computer screen.

It was the editor's transparent panel.

The panel was divided into a dozen‑plus windows, each showing a live feed from a region: street riots in Washington, troop movements in London, the eleven distorted faces in the Federation Investigation Bureau's underground conference room.

Chu Che lifted the coffee and took a sip.

The temperature was just right.

His gaze landed on one window—the silhouette of Wei Gong, lid tightened on his Thermal Cup, exiting the conference room, the back of his Zhongshan suit fluttering slightly in the draft through the door crack.

He lifted a finger and nudged the gold‑rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

The eyes behind the lenses were gentle.

So gentle they felt safe.

"Open, just as I anticipated the choice."

He softly echoed Wei Gong's decision, his tone even carrying a hint of admiration.

The coffee cup was set back on the table, the porcelain base striking the wooden surface with a faint "tap".

Chu Che's eyes moved from Wei Gong's silhouette to the other windows—crowds breaching the isolation zone, Special Forces members collapsing in tears, barrage comments flooding the live stream, and the trembling hands of world leaders as they signed the Joint Declaration.

He leaned back in the chair, his hands crossed and resting on his abdomen.

His whole body relaxed, not as if he were overlooking a civilization‑scale crisis, but more like a weekend night curled up on the sofa watching a decent movie.

"Fear, anger, doubt, betrayal, awakening…"

He counted them one by one, the curve at the corner of his mouth ever present, restrained and elegant, just right.

"The most spectacular human drama has never been rehearsed on a stage. You have to tear down the set, let the actors stand on the ruins, to perform something real."

A new data stream popped up on the editor panel.

Global Aberrants count statistics: daily growth rate +340%.

Gospel Church newly registered believers: a single day surpassed thirty thousand.

Chu Che stared for a long time.

Long enough for the coffee to cool completely.

Then he closed the last window.

The editor panel folded away, leaving only the faint glow of the laptop screen in the room.

Chu Che rose from the swivel chair and walked to the floor‑to‑ceiling window.

The night view of Jiang Hai City spread out beneath his feet: countless lights, countless windows, countless ordinary people who still didn't know that tomorrow they'd wake to a completely different world.

He slipped both hands into his pockets.

The glass reflected the entire city's mirror image.

"The shepherd's work…"

"The results are about to show."